


The Current Temperature in Downtown Washington

by sarah_segretti



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Pre-X-Files Revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarah_segretti/pseuds/sarah_segretti
Summary: Summary: Unseasonably warm temperatures lure a depressed Mulder and a bored Scully, both still on probation and off the X-files, into an unauthorized road trip that doesn't turn out the way they'd expected. Not that that's such a bad thing.





	The Current Temperature in Downtown Washington

**Author's Note:**

> Original author's notes: I assume "Terms of Endearment" happens before "The Ghosts Who Stole Christmas," even though it aired after. Spoilers galore for the sixth season through "Terms of Endearment," and for several episodes from previous seasons. Keyserville and its hospital do not exist, although every other place (yes, all of them) and place of business mentioned does. EAP stands for "employee assistance program." I played fast and loose with how long it takes to drive around the DC area; if I stuck to the facts on that, this story would take place over three days instead of one. And it really was that warm in DC on that day; I was there. 
> 
> Updated author's note: Originally posted March 1999, so "that day" is December 1998. Now it's that warm in DC on that day all the time. And sadly, most of the businesses mentioned towards the end of the story have closed. :(

Federal Bureau of Investigation  
Washington DC  
11:21 a.m. 

"Here's the latest weather forecast, brought to you by Bell Atlantic. The current temperature in downtown Washington: 71 degrees." 

On December 4! Fox Mulder marveled, slipping his desk phone back into its cradle and staring past his coworkers. Now *that's* an X-file. 

Except that that wasn't his job anymore, taken away by flames and by force and by fucking office *politics,* and in its place he'd been given the *opportunity* to investigate big piles of manure - the kind that could blow up the federal government, and the kind that wanted to work for it. His few attempts at freelancing even in the face of probation had effectively ended a couple of weeks ago on I-81 north of Roanoke, somewhere near the exit to Troutville, where Scully had let him have it but good. 

"First, you ditch me again," she'd begun, blue eyes simultaneously ice and fire, and he remembered instinctively gripping the steering wheel of their rented Taurus, bracing himself. "And then I have to take the heat from AD Kersh alone, and then I end up digging dead babies out of a pregnant woman's yard - Never again, Mulder, do you hear me, never again!" 

Cowed by the unexpected rage in her voice, he managed to keep the snappy comebacks to himself, and several dozen miles later - near Fort Defiance, ironically - could only nod numb agreement when she laid out her final terms. She didn't define them as such, but he recognized an ultimatum when he heard one. 

And he was following her directive to the letter - even though he would have given anything to be out in the field right now, outdoors, on a spring December day, talking to, oh, say, a farmer whose cattle had been mysteriously exsanguinated and only incidentally watching out-of-season freckles bloom across his partner's nose. 

The enigmatic Dr. Dana Scully, who at this moment was seated at her own computer, at her desk behind him, where he could see her out of the corner of his eye. She was concentrating on her screen, absently munching on another bag of those damned alien snacks, little fruit gummies that some anonymous office wag had begun to leave on his desk. Scully had inexplicably taken a liking to them. She'd also looped a string of green alien-head Christmas lights - left by the same smart guy, no doubt - around her desk lamp. Strange to think she might have developed a sense of humor about the whole alien thing - or maybe this was an elaborate fuck-you to their more conventional colleagues. Hard to say which. 

She looked up, caught him watching her, and held out a purple alien snack with the most innocent of innocent expressions on her face. 

"No, thank you," he said. 

"Excellent source of beta carotene and Vitamin C, Mulder. Says so right on the bag." 

"Stick it in your bee pollen." 

Scully leaned around her computer and crooked a beckoning finger at him. He could almost feel their closest coworkers straining to listen, just as he knew they waited every day to see whether - and how - trouble would break out at the preternaturally calm Spooky desk. Two weeks now. Two weeks of dutifully sifting through documentation of legitimate ammonia nitrate sales, of tracking the shipment of biological agents to bona fide research facilities, of knocking on the doors of countless red brick colonials asking the good people of Arlington if their neighbors were fit for public service. He wasn't doing it because he believed Scully's assertion that if they were good boys and girls, they'd get the X-files back and then they'd get the chance to recreate the vaccine he'd given her in Antarctica, to crack the conspiracy open. 

No, he was tolerating this slow torture because of something she'd nearly let slip in the car. 

"You have to do this, Mulder, for me. I don't want to lose - " She caught herself, and finished lamely, "-my job." 

He'd accepted her words, but preferred to believe her accidental, unspoken message. For you, Scully, I'm doing this for you, he thought, leaning in to hear what she had to say. 

She wasn't smiling - when did she ever, any more? - but her face had a relaxed quality to it that he thought he'd seen more and more the last two weeks. Behaving did have its upside. 

"Don't crack today, Mulder," she whispered. "If you do, Tom Colton wins the pool." 

Revenge struck swiftly and well. A pencil fell onto Scully's head and bounced onto the desk. Startled, she glanced up at the ceiling, a hand to her hair. Mulder followed her gaze. Damn, he thought. Only four left. Gonna have to spear a few more up there. 

Scully's eyebrow crept up. Mulder returned the innocent look she'd just given him. 

His phone rang. 

And when he hung up a few minutes later, he knew he'd found salvation. 

The only question was, how to get Scully to go along? No, the question was, should he convince Scully to go along? This one certainly had the feel of an X-file, a borderline one, but an X- file nonetheless. He pondered this as he gazed past her - typing now, engrossed, alien snacks abandoned next to her American Society of Clinical Pathologists mouse pad - to the window at the far end of the corridor. Being out of the basement was both a blessing and a curse. The sun, visible here, had a decidedly springlike cast to it. He noticed that there were far fewer occupied desks in their department than when he'd boarded this train of thought. 

The current temperature in downtown Washington - 

_Stop it. You promised her. No freelancing, no ditching. Paperwork. Background checks._

Oh, big piles of manure. Mulder banged out a quick e-mail to Scully, shrugged into his suit jacket, and suppressed a sudden urge to kiss her on the cheek as he headed for the elevator. He could only hope she understood. 

 

11:55 a.m. 

It occurred to Mulder as he stood near the hotdog cart at the corner of Pennsylvania and Ninth that he really was hungry. Asking Scully to meet him out here had been a ruse so he could talk to her privately, but damn, those hotdogs smelled good.. 

He was halfway through a simple dog-mustard-ketchup combo when she appeared, jogging through tourists and traffic as she crossed Ninth, her hands stuffed deep into the pocket of her unbuttoned coat which she wore despite the temperature. Her face was wary, but she didn't look angry. 

Yet. 

"This had better be good, Mulder," she said. 

"I just thought you'd like to get outside on a day like this." He gave her his most charming smile, and was gratified to see her shoulders creep down away from her ears. She pushed a stray lock of hair back into place. 

"Oh, all right, I was thinking about lunch near the fountain." She cocked her head towards the nearby Navy Memorial as Mulder three-pointed the remains of his hotdog into a nearby trash can. "But I still find it suspicious that you sent me that email mere seconds after getting a phone call where your caller did all the talking. Lay it on me, Mulder." 

"Unexplained deaths," he began, both guilty and amused that he'd been busted so easily. "Three of them, in the same small town. The patients had nothing in common. An old man with Alzheimer's, a woman with breast cancer, a young man with diabetes. None came to the hospital for their underlying illness." 

"Nosocomial infections?" Scully asked. 

Mulder's heart sank, and he wasn't sure why. "Hospital-acquired?" he said weakly. "I guess that's possible. My informant said nothing about any infectious etiology ..." More than possible. Damned probable, as a matter of fact. So much for inflating this into an X-file. But he still wanted to get out of the office. He rallied. "Three unexplained deaths in one small community these days could be caused by man as well as by microbe - since we're more or less on the domestic terrorism squad, I think we could at least justify giving the case a look." 

"Oh, Mulder, you're good." Scully chuckled mirthlessly. "I think that's less rather than more, but at least Kersh would have to work to fire us if we went to - " She looked at him questioningly. Mulder hesitated. 

"Keyserville, Va.," he finally said. 

"Near Mount Weather?" Scully was incredulous. "FEMA headquarters? Are you sure your informant wasn't just calling from the Horseshoe Curve?" 

Mulder fell silent. The two of them had been out to the Curve before. The little bar was a hotbed of current and retired spooks, wannabe spy novelists, FEMA workers - and didn't we all know that FEMA was part of the alien conspiracy? And, well, she was right. 

Scully sighed, and stared past him to the water cascading over the dark marble of the Navy Memorial. "You know, Mulder," she said, her voice suddenly small, "I've got the strangest feeling that Kersh really is going to fire me." 

"You? Why?" 

"No reason. I've just felt that way ever since we got back from Area 51." She held up a hand to stop his protest. "I know, I know, we didn't get caught, but still -" 

Wow. Maybe she really had been worried about her job. Maybe he'd misread a message that hadn't been there to begin with. _You are perilously close to breaking your end of the deal, Agent Mulder_ "Scully, it's not that important. We don't have to go." 

"Mulderrrrr." His name a reproach. "Who ever said I didn't want to go? If I have to type up one more report on one more background check, I'm going to shoot somebody. Especially on a day like this." 

"I guess I win the pool, then." Mulder smirked at her. "I knew you couldn't hold out forever." 

"No, actually, I win. I'd picked today, around lunch. Colton had you cracking at the end of the day." 

He stared at her in astonishment. She was serious. 

Suddenly her sober expression dissolved. "Had you big time." 

"I knew you were kidding." 

"You knew nothing of the sort. We go to Keyserville on one condition." 

_No, not more conditions, please ..._ "Anything." 

"I get to drive." 

"Sculleeee," he pleaded, then relented at the stony look on her face. "All right." 

"Let's go then." She began to walk back towards the building, then turned from a few steps away to face him. Her voice carried through the lunch crowd, a few of whom did double takes as she spoke. "Oh, and Mulder? Pray it's anthrax." 

 

Horseshoe Curve  
Keyserville, Va.  
1:14 p.m. 

The Horseshoe Curve hadn't changed since the last time Mulder had been out. Sure, there were more foreign beer cans and policeman's caps lining the shelves than a couple of years ago, but even in that familiar location he found himself profoundly uncomfortable. The informant, a slightly paunchy middle-aged man with a rich Blue Ridge accent, a true local, droned on. Scully appeared to be listening raptly, but Mulder knew the look - he'd been on the receiving end more than once, and with him, it usually meant she was about to shred another one of his theories. 

He knew what was wrong. They were too close to FEMA headquarters, and that made him think of Dallas, and Antarctica - and he hadn't expected to feel this way. His nightmares on that particular topic had stopped weeks ago. _And I dragged Scully up here too - Jesus, what was I thinking?_

A light touch on his jacket sleeve roused him. "Mulder?" To anyone else, Scully's voice would have sounded utterly professional. What he heard was concern. "You with us here?" 

"Sure. Go on." He cupped both hands around his glass of iced tea and leaned forward. 

Scully had copies of each patient's medical records spread open on the table. Her gaze flicked over them as the man outlined the little he'd heard about each - damn, Mulder thought, this information has to be third, fourth-hand at best, terrible - but one file she held firmly in one hand, unopened. Her knuckles were white. 

Mulder realized she held a fourth file. A fourth death. 

And he also realized that under the Look was incredible tension. 

"Thank you," Scully told their source abruptly. "I've heard all I need. We'll be in touch if we need anything more." 

Dismissed. The man looked from one agent to the other, a little baffled. Scully placed the unopened file on the table, clasped her hands tightly together on top of it. "I need to discuss this case with my partner," she added. "Thank you very much for the call." 

The man stood, slowly comprehending that his services were no longer needed. 

"I'll have my girl call your girl," Mulder said firmly. 

He got the picture and left. Mulder returned his attention to Scully, and was amazed to see that her lips were trembling, her posture rigid. "Scully, are you --" 

Her right hand shot out and gripped his, painfully tight. "Don't ask me that question now. Ask me later, when we're finished here. And that won't take long." She stood up and nearly sprinted for the ladies' room. 

Mulder gaped after her for a second. _I guess that beats "I'm fine..."_ Pulling the files towards him, he began to leaf through the hastily Xeroxed copies. Some pages were crooked, hard to read. And since he hadn't been listening closely to the source, he'd have to rely on Scully for the details. 

The last file lay in front of Scully's abandoned chair. What upset her so? he wondered, and when he picked it up, he knew without opening it. 

Marshall, Caitlyn, the label read. DOB 6/10/94. 

A four-year-old girl. Oh, my God. 

Emily. 

"Liver transplant recipient." Scully's S's were especially slushy, the way they got when she was upset. She sat down again, brushed at the underside of her nose with the back of her index finger. Mulder's heart lurched - nosebleed? - but no, she was just trying to pull herself together. 

"Transplant at age one for biliary atresia. Doing well. Her parents took her to the ER because she'd fallen off the slide and broken her arm. It has occurred to me," she continued in the same flat, clinical tone, "that this time of year may be difficult for me for a few years. Have you spotted the connection between the cases yet, Mulder?" 

Huh? What? Whoa. Mental whiplash. She was good at causing that. "Scully -?" 

Don't you *dare* ask me if I'm okay, her eyes warned. He backed off. "The charts are hard to read," he admitted. 

"Chronic disease. Active cancer. Aging. *Transplant*." She emphasized the last, and let him digest it for a moment. "The next one will probably be someone with AIDS." 

He got it. "Immune deficiency." 

"Do you know if there's any construction going on at the hospital?" 

 

1:52 p.m. 

Scully stepped out of the Horseshoe Curve a few paces ahead of Mulder, who'd hung back to collect the discarded files. Automatically, she shoved her hands into her pockets and braced against the expected cold. The warmth still came as a surprise, even though the weather had been like this for days. Warm like - San Diego. Damn. 

Mulder brushed past her on the way to the car, touching her arm lightly as he did, wanting to cheer her up even as he looked so downcast himself. Poor guy. He'd clearly seen this expedition as a lark, a way to get out of the office on a gorgeous day, with just a hint of screw-you-Kersh thrown in. It had nearly worked - he'd made her smile in the car, doing air drum solos to the synthesized '80s Britpop the local rock station always played during the lunch hour, happily caterwauling along with the songs he knew. He didn't have much of a voice, but it was better than hers. His preoccupation and silence had grown the nearer they got to Mount Weather. It hadn't been hard to figure him out. 

_Oh, Mulder. Thought you were over the scares of the summer, didn't you?_ She watched him buckle himself into her passenger seat and then gaze studiously out the window. 

And then that damned file - 

Well. She squared her shoulders. Dr. Kosseff had warned her there'd be days like this. Too bad she and Mulder were having one simultaneously. At least this wasn't going to take long. 

 

Community Memorial Hospital  
Keyserville, Va.  
2:01 p.m. 

The hospital driveway ran reddish brown with the runoff from the mounds of clay-laced dirt that lined it. Men in hardhats and steel-toed boots mingled with the white-coated staff and nervous, smoking relatives lurking outside the hospital's main entrance. Part of the building was draped in massive sheets of blue plastic. Over it all rose a construction crane. 

Scully and Mulder sat in the car for a second, surveying the scene, then got out together. A sign she hadn't been able to see from the car read "Expanding to meet your medical needs." Son of a bitch, Scully thought. If this is what I think it is, I'm going to have this place shut down for incompetence. 

A warm breeze lifted her hair and stirred her coat. She closed her car door and started for the hospital - then realized she was alone. "Mulder?" 

He was staring at the building, his car door still open, an unreadable expression on his face. "Why don't we go somewhere and just make a few phone calls? I hear the food here is terrible." 

"Mulder," she said, gently. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, then looked straight at her. "I'm about maxed out on hospitals, Scully." 

Aren't we all, Fox. Aren't we all. "Come on," she said, not unkindly. "You started this. You're going to finish it. We'll be done in an hour." 

 

4:15 p.m. 

Another hard plastic chair outside another soulless hospital room, another cup of coffee cooling in his hands while he waited uselessly. This whole jaunt had been one big ugly flashback - someone's trying to tell me never to play hooky again, Mulder thought. So much for getting out to play. 

It was eminently clear to him that no conspiracy, no demented individual, no X-file, was responsible for these deaths, but Scully still wanted to poke around a bit. She'd disappeared into the hospital's pathology lab with a cooperative doc. Something had caught her medically-trained eye, but beyond the fact that all four patients had been immunosuppressed he couldn't say what. She was the one with the subscription to Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, not him. Although sometimes the MMWR did make for some interesting reading - beauty cream contaminated with mercury, now that had been a memorable case. Brain injuries in bull riders had been a good one, too - 

A sound roused him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Scully in the door of the lab, stripping off a protective gown and hairnet. She was staring at him, her eyes huge and steady, remembering something. Then she shook it off. He scrambled to his feet. 

"You're late," he said, the words he'd intended as a joke coming out sharply instead. Scully either didn't notice or didn't mind. 

"Well, your informant was right to call a federal agency. He just called the wrong one." 

"You're kidding. This does need to be investigated?" 

"By the Centers for Disease Control, not us." Her voice was grim. "Vancomycin-resistant staph." 

From her tone alone, he knew he was listening to some medical worst-case scenario. He cocked his head at her curiously, and she continued. 

"In 1997, the CDC received reports of two cases of staph partially resistant to vancomycin, both in immunocompromised patients. Doctors threw a whole arsenal of antibiotics at each man - tetracycline, trimethoprim-sulfamethoxadole, rifampin, you name it. Last I heard, it took months for the infections to clear. Their blood tests showed only partial resistance, but the results on these people just came back from the CDC - full resistance. To everything. Mulder, this is bad." 

"Define bad." 

"Real bad." She sighed. "Vancomycin is the gold standard, the last line of defense. If we lose that, we might as well not have antibiotics at all." She sighed again. "I'd have put my money on aspergillus, with all this construction. At least they had the sense to call the CDC and the state health department, and they're not accepting patients until they isolate the source -" 

"Quarantine?" Mulder squeaked. "This is *infectious?*" 

Scully almost smiled at his distress - God, how he hated hospitals - but this really was too serious. "Not the way you're thinking. We're fine. We can go." She paused. _Oh, hell, I've got to say it._ "But it is why I tell you to finish all your antibiotics." 

He was quiet for a moment. "We can go?" 

"Yes." She frowned. "Come on, Mulder, aren't you going to argue with me? Surely this is some unconscionable human experiment on victims who were secretly genetically linked, who had gotten a glimpse of something that was meant to remain hidden -" 

She realized her voice had gone deeper, her cadence become like his. A small smile played about his mouth, but it wasn't enough to override the unhappiness. He simply put a hand at the small of her back and guided her to the door. "Let's just go home, Scully." 

"Mulder?" She twisted around to look at him. "Are you all right?" 

"*Scully.*" From the way he said her name, she knew she was about to get zinged. "I'm *fine.*" 

She was never, ever going to use that phrase again. 

 

Interstate 66  
Fairfax County, Va.  
5:07 p.m. 

They drove back in silence, the twilight slowly darkening around them. Mulder stared determinedly out the side window. Scully occasionally stole worried glances at him when traffic allowed. She'd traded the rock station for NPR, letting the latest impeachment news bore into her brain. In, out, up, down, whatever. There were days at work she wanted to march across the aisle next to her desk and turn the Big Creep's lying picture to the wall. No wonder the government thought it could get away with so much - look at who was in charge. What she really wanted to hear was news about the Gulf - Charlie's ship had been sent there during the last aborted dust-up with Saddam Hussein, and she was praying that there'd be no repeat for Christmas - and the NBA lockout. With his beloved Knicks sidelined, Mulder had lost one of his few emotional outlets. She knew he'd spent this dreadful Redskins season screaming maniacally at every losing game; she'd watched more than a few with him. Better he make imprecations about Norv Turner's mother than open fire in the office, though, she thought. 

Mulder fidgeted in his seat. "I have to turn this shit off, Scully. I don't know what's worse, the lies from the politicians or the spin from the pundits." 

She considered this. "That is a tough call. Go ahead - oh!" 

Construction, dammit, out of nowhere. Traffic had slowed to an unexpected crawl. She slammed on the brakes, then felt her car stutter over a rough patch of pavement, then another, and another. It evened out, eventually, but the shoulders were gone and cars moved closely side by side, the lanes barely wide enough for the average SUV. She had to hang on tight to the wheel to keep control. 

"Whoa, Scully, the Indy 500's not till May." 

"Shut up, Mulder, I have to concentrate here." 

Her cell phone rang. She started to fumble for it, realized she wasn't going to be able to get it without wrecking the car. "Uh, Mulder, could you answer that?" 

"Why, Miss Scully," he drawled in a fine imitation of their informant. "A gentleman never answers a lady's phone, 'specially not when she keeps it where you've got it." 

She wanted to slap him, mostly because she had a very bad feeling about who was calling. "Shut up and answer it before it goes to voice mail." 

It only took a second for him to get her phone out of her coat pocket, but during that second, she felt every motion as if it lasted an hour - the way he stretched her coat over her leg to reach her pocket, his hand sliding over its satin lining, the way she swore he let his fingers lazily trace along her thigh as he palmed the phone and pulled it out. She didn't dare look at him, and not just because she was in rush hour traffic on 66. 

What the hell was *that*? The weather's gone to my head, she thought. 

"Agent Scully's phone." She felt rather than saw Mulder go rigid. "AD Kersh, sir. No, sir, she's fine." 

Dammit, dammit, dammit! I knew it! Scully smacked a hand on the steering wheel in frustration. This time she saw Mulder glance at her with concern. He reached over to the radio and snapped off Mara Liasson. "But she's driving in some heavy traffic, sir, and asked that I answer her phone. On 66 near Tyson's, sir. No, sir, I wouldn't feel comfortable having her talk and drive in this traffic." 

_Bless you, Mulder. I think._

"No, sir. No. Not at all. No. I received a phone call from an informant who remembered me from my days in the -" he didn't even hesitate - "office of domestic terrorism. No, it didn't. The CDC is - Well, sir, no, I -" His voice dropped, took on an edge that made Scully fear for his personnel record again. "No, next time I'll call the Weapons of Mass Destruction team first. We were fairly sure it wasn't - No. No, sir. We'll have them on your desk Monday morning." He stabbed the "end" button with a thumb. "You big pile of manure." 

Traffic was easing up, and Scully reached out a hand for her phone. "Thanks for taking that call." 

"No problem. Me and the Kershman, we're like this." Mulder crossed his fingers, then returned her phone. "Besides," he added softly, "it was my idea to go. You shouldn't have to take the heat for this one. You've defended me enough." 

"Mulder," she began, then realized she'd just been given an apology. "Thanks." 

"Don't be too grateful. All that scut work we blew off today has to be finished and on the Kershman's desk by 8 a.m. Monday." Mulder paused, and shifted in his seat to look straight at her. "He said the damnedest thing, thought. When I answered your phone, he said, 'My frequent flyers. Should have known you'd be together.'" 

A chill ran through Scully. She managed a quick, startled glance at Mulder. His hazel eyes held confusion. "It wasn't *that* weird, Scully." 

"He's said that to us before, that son of a bitch. Don't you remember?" 

Mulder shook his head. Scully was wound awfully tight, even by their extremely loose definition of that term. She had a terrific command of some fine Anglo-Saxon terms, he knew that from personal experience, but this time even her body language was shouting TV-14-L. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe another stab at the Question was in order. 

"Uh, Scully, you know I love it when you talk dirty to me-" _the Look, too, oh, yeah, Mulder baby, you're on a *roll* -_ "but pounding on the steering wheel is in my job description, not yours." 

The illumination from the streetlights and the oncoming traffic strobed across her still face. "He's trying to play with my head. He thinks I'm the weak link." 

"Scully, that's absurd. You're the strongest person I know." He said this sincerely, and she nodded briefly in acknowledgement. "He ought to come after me." 

"My knight in shining armor." Her voice was mocking, but gently so. And then she sighed yet again, and her voice changed. "Mulder, he knows you don't give a damn. Me, he thinks he's found a ... a vulnerability. And he may be right. I'm a cancer survivor. And Kersh helpfully pointed out to me one day that should I lose my job, I'd be uninsurable." 

The rage he felt was unbelievable. Enemies that played rough were one thing. Those that played dirty were another. So easy to picture himself pulling a gun on the bastard, for hurting Scully again. "When did he tell you that?" 

"When you were off chasing devil babies." 

And Kersh had lit into her on his behalf, because he'd ditched her and the background checks. She'd been especially snippy when she finally showed up in Roanoke. No wonder - and no  
wonder he'd caught hell on the way home. "Scully, I'm sorry - " 

"Look, it's not your fault. Really. It upset me, but I'll live." 

Two thoughts occurred to him simultaneously. He voiced the safe one. "You know, he can't threaten you like that - isn't there some sort of law?" 

"There is, but it doesn't matter. My next employer doesn't have to make it affordable, or give me as much coverage. Everything was paid for this time, but what if --?" 

His other exultant thought - that she had owned up to being upset and didn't brush him off with the F-word - was cut short. God, no, no what-ifs, never. 

"Everything, Scully?" he asked jokingly, hoping he'd covered that surge of awful emotion. "Not everything." 

The glum expression on her face vanished as she caught his drift. "Oh, yeah. Everything." 

It took a second for that to sink in, and when it did, Mulder's jaw dropped. "You mean to tell me Aetna covered your *implant?*" 

"My subcutaneous drug delivery system," she corrected him. "That's how it was described on the list of itemized services. My doctor told me later he thought, what the hell, we already had one miracle, let's go for two. And the claim went through." 

The image of some unwitting HMO paper pusher rubber-stamping approval of a unproven treatment based on extraterrestrial technology and stolen from the Pentagon's basement was just too rich. Mulder had to laugh - but the wry chuckle he'd thought the image was worth ballooned into a helpless guffaw he couldn't control. He heard a delicate snort next to him, and then the most beautiful sound he'd heard in years. 

Scully was laughing, too. 

One hand was over her mouth, like a little girl trying not to get caught giggling in class, and that just set him off again. 

Oh, God, that felt so much better than crying. 

Scully hiccuped, smacked him in the arm with the hand she'd had over her mouth, and hiccuped again. "Now look what you've done," she exclaimed, but she was still laughing. 

It took a few more miles through the outskirts of Arlington County for them to settle down. Mulder pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping away tears of laughter. He snuck a look at Scully, who was dabbing a knuckle under each eye, trying not to ruin her makeup. The tiny, feminine gesture tugged at his heart. 

"Scully," he said, "do you know how long it's been since I heard you laugh?" 

"April 27, 1995." 

"You remember!" 

"I'm making that up, Mulder." 

"Some days it feels like it's been that long," he said wistfully. 

"So tell funnier jokes." She smiled right at him. 

Whatever switch had been tripped by the sight of her dabbing at her eyes was now fully engaged and locked in place. Mulder felt a calm he couldn't remember ever experiencing, not since before Samantha had disappeared, maybe not even then. Something told him just to sit there and enjoy it. 

Scully flipped on the left turn signal, preparing to merge with the traffic splitting off for the District. "Where are you going?" Mulder asked. 

"To get your car," she replied distractedly, looking over her shoulder to check her blind spot. 

Mulder shook his head. Nothing short of full-scale alien invasion was going to separate them tonight. "We're going to have to work all weekend. I'll cab in and get it tomorrow." 

"Okay." Scully shrugged. "So where to?" 

 

2630 Hegal Place  
Alexandria, Va.  
6:45 p.m. 

"Mulder?" 

Scully was in his kitchen. He looked back over his shoulder to see her head pop up over the open refrigerator door, then went back to riffling through his coat rack. He was in the midst of a fruitless search for a springweight overcoat - he had a terrible feeling he'd ruined his last one and had forgotten to replace it. "What?" 

"There's food in here, Mulder!" That tone of voice was familiar: Mulder, toads just fell from the sky! "And none of it's moldy and none of it's in takeout cartons." He heard her pick something up. "Sell by Jan. 7, 1999. That's next year! Mulder? Are you okay?" 

This one wasn't ruined, but the pocket was ripped. It would have to do. "You've been after me to take better care of myself, so I am." 

She appeared in his entryway, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. "Huh," was all she said. 

The way she was looking at him made him nervous. "What??" 

"Nothing." She stepped forward and fingered the torn pocket. "Crazed vampires or an angry Gray?" 

Mulder was so flabbergasted by her physical forwardness that he couldn't come up with a joke. "My own doorknob." 

"I could fix that for you if you wanted." 

"I don't know. I've seen the way you stitch up a Y-cut." 

She blew a gentle raspberry at him, and he took a moment to marvel at the way the day had finally turned out. 

They'd gotten out of the office. 

They'd had some fun driving. 

The current temperature in downtown Washington (he'd checked): 65 degrees. 

And he'd made Dana Scully laugh. 

"Ready?" On an impulse he crooked his arm and offered it to her. To his everlasting delight, she took it, her small hand resting comfortably in the bend of his elbow. 

"Mexican, right?" she asked. 

Mulder grinned at her. "Anything you want, Dr. Scully." 

 

Old Town Alexandria  
8 p.m. 

This restaurant is so Mulder, Scully thought, glancing around at the Christmas balls hanging from the ceiling on long strings, at the colorful blues concert posters and maps of Austin, Texas, on the walls, at the Santa hat on the head of the giant papier mache snake hanging a few feet from her own.. The two of them usually ate in brass-trimmed, wood-paneled restaurants - but only, she realized, because she liked them. She fiddled with the stem of her margarita glass and smiled. _Didn't we investigate this place once?_

But what was not so Mulder was the man sitting across from her, studiously coloring in the cowgirls and lizards on the kiddie menu, beer forgotten at his elbow. Like Scully, he'd discarded suit jacket and overcoat - his tie was loose and the sleeves of his still-crisp white shirt were rolled back. What was up with her partner? By her count, he'd apologized to her twice this afternoon alone. Not that that was a bad thing. Nor was the food in his refrigerator, nor was the fact that on the walk over from his apartment he'd managed not to talk about work. She'd had to let go of his arm as they walked, since he was just too darned tall for that to be comfortable for her for long. But she'd released him with no small measure of regret. Ever since he'd made her laugh in the car, she'd felt like touching him. And touching was something that was also not in her job description. His, yes. At least his hand had found its way to the small of her back again, guiding her through the crowds on the sidewalk. Tonight, the familiar gesture felt different, and she couldn't figure out how. 

Maybe the question was really, What was up with her? 

"Purple would work well here," Mulder mused. Scully turned the paper placemat around so she could see his handiwork. The clash of primary colors reminded her of one of his old ties. "Can I get a purple crayon?" he asked the waitress, who was setting down their dinners. 

"Watch out, plate's hot. Sorry, no purple." The waitress twinkled at him a little, but he was oblivious. Scully shook her head. Nothing new there. She watched him tuck into a plate of carnitas, considering and discarding a few theories. 

Mulder broke her train of thought, reaching over to dunk a chip in her guacamole. "Use it or lose it, Scully." 

She started to unwrap one of her chicken tacos, decided to move her guacamole to where it would be more difficult for him to reach, and tilted her head to one side. "I know what it is. You look rested. Have you been sleeping, Mulder?" 

His fork paused in midair. "I guess so," he said with some surprise. "I know I haven't -" He stopped. 

"Haven't what?" 

"Nothing. Eat your taco." 

She decided not to press him. They ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes. Scully occasionally glanced around at the other patrons. They ran the gamut from packs of 20-something Hill rats just beginning their evenings to parents racing to stuff their youngsters and themselves with food before the babies went off with fatigue. Where do we fit in? she found herself wondering. 

"We're not on duty right now, Agent Scully. No need to case the joint." Mulder's eyes sparkled with amusement. 

"I was looking at the posters." A family just over Mulder's shoulder caught her attention. 

"You're a terrible liar." 

From her peripheral vision - she wasn't looking directly at him anymore - she saw him turn to follow her gaze. There was a small girl at one of the tables near the window, too big for a high chair but short enough she had to kneel on the chair to reach the table. Huge, intelligent eyes peered out from under light brown hair that needed a trim. She was munching on a quesadilla; her curly-haired baby brother waved fat arms at her and babbled. Their poor parents looked like they wanted to fall asleep in their food. But the girl held her attention - that quiet intensity was so familiar ...

"Scully?" 

She felt the briefest of touches on her bare forearm. Still holding her taco in both hands, she met his eyes, liquid with compassion. He'd always been a source of strength, in his own peculiar Muldery way, but again, this was different. There was connection, so strong it nearly crackled. There was comfort. There was, unbelievably, calm. 

A bit of sour cream from the taco began to slide down her wrist. She set it down to grab a napkin, breaking contact with his hand. "It's okay. Dr. Kosseff said there'd be days like this." 

"Yeah, those messy tacos are a bitch, aren't they?" He paused. "You're still seeing her?" 

Scully nodded. "It helps." 

"That's good." 

He seemed to mean it. She peered at him curiously and waited. Nothing. No nervous questions wondering if she'd said anything about him, no snarky remarks about how she already had a trained psychologist on hand. Nothing. Even though she could almost see the wheels turning in his head. 

"Do you think - " he continued, then cut off his own thought. "Naw. Spooky Mulder at the EAP. Sounds like a bad children's book." 

Interesting, that he'd even consider it. Better than having another hole drilled in his head, though. Much better. 

"I was thinking about buying that one for Matthew for Christmas, but he's still young. Curious George Climbs an Electric Fence seemed a better bet," she said. 

Mulder gave her a loopy, appreciative look. "You can have my copy." 

"It would save me going to the mall." They stared at each other for a second. Oh, she'd missed this, and she suspected he had, too. As events had grown darker over the last year or two, the banter had nearly disappeared. Too many frightening things had happened to even think about trying to be funny. She actually treasured a memory from Dallas, of trying to scare each other on that damned hot rooftop and succeeding - playing around before it all went to hell. 

He reached for his beer, seemed to think better of it, and set it aside among the condiments. "So Bill and Tara are bringing Matthew here this year, right?" 

Huh. Last year she'd nearly been out the door, suitcase and ticket in hand, before he'd even realized she was leaving. "Yeah. They'll be staying at Mom's. I'll probably be there most of the holiday. You?" 

He shrugged. "Thought I'd call my mother, see what she was up to." 

Scully's eyebrow went skyward. "I'm not the only bad liar at this table." 

"All right, I haven't made any plans yet." He glanced at the beer, set his jaw, and glared at her, reading her mind. "And don't you dare tell your mother. I can think of a lot better ways to spend a holiday than watching your brother dream of ways to beat me up." 

She was quiet for a minute, then nodded. Bill was softening a bit on the topic of Mulder - "At least that partner of yours is good for something," he'd grumbled after the events of the summer - but she'd never told Mulder that, because Bill had threatened to hunt her down and kill her if she did. A bit wasn't a lot, though, and that partner of hers was right about the mood his presence would set. Her mother wouldn't care; she'd invite Mulder anyway if she heard he was going to be alone. And he'd be miserable. Scully wouldn't do that to him. He trusted her not to - 

Trusted. 

He trusted her. 

He'd wanted badly to go home, but yet let her stay at the hospital and play. He could have argued with her for appearance's sake, but let her theory stand - not because he wanted to leave, but because he knew she was right. He'd trusted her judgment. He'd trusted her. 

That's what was different. 

"Scully? You look like you've seen an alien spacecraft." 

He was staring at her in that intense way he had, his hazel eyes searching out her soul, simultaneously worried and trying to hide behind a smartass comment. For years he'd relied on her, had leaned on her, her science, her smarts, her (relative) stability, she knew that. He'd told her that. He would, and had, put his life on the line for her, just as she had and would for him. One in five billion, she was. Nearly six if you wanted to get technical about world population figures. And that speech in his hallway, it had been beautiful, it had made her cry, but even knowing he'd gone to the end of the world for her, she was still aware that it had taken an extreme circumstance to force those feelings out of him. 

She'd always had the nagging feeling that he never quite forgot she'd been sent to him as a spy - a role she'd never fulfilled. He was so used to being manipulated and abused and mocked and doubted that he never quite believed that although his partner still had trouble believing in aliens - yes, Mulder, one pretty much does have to bite me on the ass, and I'd have to personally witness it, and then I'd still want to test the DNA it left behind -- she had no trouble believing in him. 

And now, somehow, she knew that he understood that she did. 

"Scully?" 

She could hear the nervousness in his voice, wondered just what expression she had on her face. "I'm fine," she said absently, knowing that the phrase would annoy him, but wanting to buy some time to let this new idea sink in. To let the idea of him sink in. 

Time to consider some extreme possibilities. 

Her brain was buzzing a little. She looked directly at him again. A peculiar expression twitched across his face - it's his panic face, she thought giddily. 

"Mulder, if I had seen an alien spacecraft, I would look like this." 

And she sprawled dramatically across the table, pretending to pass out. 

"Scully!" 

Her head had barely hit the Formica before she felt his hands on her shoulders, urgently trying to pull her up, his breath audible and ragged with real fear. 

Oh, shit, she thought. 

He was actually trying to check for a pulse, his fingers probing her wrist - she heard the clink of glass hitting plate, then liquid splashing across a dinner. His, no doubt. Oh, shit. She ever so slowly raised her head, afraid to meet his eyes. "Joke?" she said weakly. 

Mulder's face was white. Without a word he snatched up his jacket and coat, slid out of the booth and bolted down the stairs for the front door. Shit shit shit. She looked around frantically for the waiter, dug two twenties out of her wallet instead, and let them flutter to the table as she ran after Mulder. 

It took her a second to wade through the datenight hordes surrounding the tiny bar downstairs, struggling into her suitjacket and coat as she did, and another to make her way through the small throng outside the door waiting for tables. _Oh, God, he's called a cab and gone home -_ No, there he was. Across Columbus Avenue, leaning against the brick wall of the nearby gourmet pizza place, looking for all the world like he needed a cigarette. She darted around a double-parked car and jaywalked over to him. 

He stared over her head rather than at her, then with a grimace ran a hand over that short, choppy haircut she was still trying to get used to, the one that made him look as if he'd walked into a ceiling fan. "Not a very nice thing to do to a guy who's been having flashbacks all afternoon," he grumbled. 

"No," she agreed. "I'm sorry." 

"I can joke about a lot of things, Scully, but not that, Scully, not yet. Maybe not ever. I'm glad you can, but -" He shivered and stuffed his hands into his pockets, even though it was still warm and he too had his coat and suit jacket on. His eyes were far away, looking through the white Christmas lights on the leafless pear trees lining the street, not seeing them, not really seeing her. "Damn, that whole thing was weird. The best and worst experience of my life. To have actually seen an alien craft, to have actually been on one - " For a second his eyes did focus on her, pleading, please remember with me, but she was never going to have a clear memory of that event, only the feel of the frostbite forming on her face as she laid in the snow and the glow on his just before he collapsed. 

"-But under those circumstances. Scully, I have never been so scared in my life. Not when Samantha was taken, not even when you were dying -" 

She sucked in her breath. Never once had he used that word during her illness. His level of denial had been impressive. At the time, she'd appreciated it. It had fueled and supported her own. Without him, she would have died - emotionally first, and then physically. She wanted to touch him again, but held still, waiting. 

Mulder exhaled first, and shivered again, clearly struggling to push difficult memories aside. "You know, I'm going to have to fire the person who makes our travel arrangements. This is not how I wanted this day to go." 

"I'm sorry," she said again. _We're certainly making up for lost time with apologies tonight, aren't we?_ "I don't know what came over me." 

"The margarita, probably," he suggested. "I always had you pegged for a lightweight." 

"No," she said, and surprised herself with her next words. "You. You came over me." 

Terror and exultation mixed well on him, she thought after a stunned moment. Speechlessness was good, too. 

They just stood there for a second, eyes locked, oblivious to the people walking around them, to the traffic just feet away. Mulder's mouth worked, but nothing came out at first. "Scully?" he finally said, so soft she had to move closer to hear him. 

"What, Mulder?" Her voice equally soft. 

"You do understand that it's not your science that makes me whole, it's you." 

She'd deliberately misunderstood that, not ready at the time to really hear what he'd been telling her, too angry at him when she'd repeated her misinterpretation back to realize how badly she was hurting him. She nodded. 

"Scully?" he said again. He was almost visibly trembling. 

"What, Mulder?" 

"Do you remember what I told you last time I was in the hospital?" 

After that Bermuda Triangle nonsense. "That I saved the world?" His face contorted in frustration. _That wasn't nice, Dana. Don't toy with a man who's spilling his heart to you._ "No. I remember." 

"I know you thought it was the drugs and the exposure, but - it wasn't. I meant it." 

For a long second, she looked at him, drank in the fact that he was letting her in. That he trusted her enough to trust her with this. That she trusted him enough to let him do it. 

The last barrier was down, and she stepped over its remains. 

"I know," she said. 

Relief washed over his face, as strong as the feeling unexpectedly filling her heart. God, he was right, he'd always been right. The truth was the only worthwhile goal. The sounds of traffic, of people walking by them on the busy street, slipped away. Time slowed, but it would never go missing, not this particular piece of time. His eyes were huge, his pupils dark despite the dim light. His hands had worked their way out of his pockets and somehow were holding hers. Out of nowhere, a thought appeared in her head, fully formed, each word illuminated against a clean background: 

_He'll ask me to stay tonight. And I will._

The thought comforted her. 

A sharp voice broke the spell. "Jefferson, party of two?" 

They both jumped. A ponytailed woman with an arm full of menus and wearing a polo shirt with the pizza parlor's name tattooed over one breast stood staring at them. Both gawked back. "Jefferson?" she repeated. 

"No, ah - no," Mulder managed. 

"Okay. Whatever." The hostess turned away. "Jefferson!" she barked again. 

Scully watched him for a second as he slowly came back to earth, conscious thought visibly reforming in his head like a slowly developing photograph. _I did that to him. Me._ His hands still clasped hers, but suddenly one disengaged and found its way to her cheek. His fingers quickly traced the line of her jaw, then disappeared. She nearly gasped with the shock of the loss of contact. 

"I want to believe, Scully," he whispered. 

Amazing how she could hear nothing but him. How he always seemed to hear what she was thinking. "Believe it." 

His eyes danced. "I might need some proof." 

She smiled back. "Aren't your own ears evidence enough?" 

"But shouldn't we be viewing this through the lens of science?" 

He was teasing her with her own words, and for once she was enjoying it. "We are, Mulder. Chemistry." 

Ah, yes. She remembered that look. She'd seen it when she'd pretended to eat that bug at the camp of the sideshow performers, had sensed it out of the corner of her eye in the Florida woods when she'd made that crack about sleeping bags. She shoots, she scores. _It's fun to play with his head; I should do it more often._

Mulder was shaking that same head. "You are a wicked, wicked woman, Dana Scully." 

"It's a good thing you're carrying a weapon, then, isn't it?" She tugged at the hand she was still holding, savoring the way his voice sounded saying her full name. "Walk me back to my car?" 

 

Mulder had walked through Old Town a million times before, but never like this, a few inches above the ragged brick sidewalks. Alien forces were massing somewhere in the universe for attack, countless humans were being stolen for grossly unethical experimentation, his sister was found and lost again - and tonight the only thing that mattered was the woman who walked next to him, her warm hand still in his. Shallow, selfish, but what the hell. Maybe they deserved this moment of warmth, payback for the years of cold, inhuman treatment they'd endured. 

That man, eyeing them as they brushed by near the Gap outlet, he could be part of the Consortium, making notes and taking pictures. That couple seated in the window of the faux French café, they could be from the Office of Professional Review and there'd be another meeting on Monday. He found it very hard to care. Scully had finally seen the truth behind the jokes. 

Floating above the ground? Yes, but firmly anchored, for once. Flight made possible by her solid foundation. 

He kept walking, thinking, until a strong pull on his arm stopped him short. She'd come to a halt in front of a toy store. Curious George - no electric fence - romped in the display window with Madeline and Classic Pooh. This looked like one of those stores where that fat Disney dork was barred in favor of the slimmer, more elegant Milne version. And no action figures or Matchbox cars, either, nothing that would look inappropriate in the Mary Cassatt gift bags they no doubt used. Scully was considering the merchandise with a very serious look on her face. 

"Matthew would love that," she said, pressing her finger against the glass. Mulder couldn't tell which toy she was looking at, tried to guess - and saw something else. 

"Wait here," he ordered her, and darted into the store. 

The salesclerk - one of those nondescript women who looked 50 even when they were only 35 - gave him a peculiar look as he described what he wanted, then spied Scully watching the proceedings through the window. "For her?" 

Mulder frowned at Scully, made a twirling motion with his finger - Turn around! Don't look! "For her," he said, as she turned her back on the store. He could just picture her rolling her eyes. 

"Interesting Christmas present," the salesclerk said, snapping open a little gift bag. Okay, not Cassatt, Renoir, the blond girl with the watering can, but he'd been close. Mulder fidgeted, waiting for the woman to wrap the tiny item in tissue paper. Scully was still facing the street, but she had her head cocked in a way that made him think she was trying to peek. Should have known she'd be a present-shaker, he thought. 

Should have known a lot of things. Well, that was going to change. 

The salesclerk was unrolling some shiny holiday wrapping paper, and he put out a hand to stop her. "Don't bother. I'm going to give it to her now." 

"You're not going to wait until Christmas?" 

Mulder shook his head. "It's not a present. It's evidence." 

 

Somehow Scully had a feeling that Mulder wasn't shopping for Matthew. Although that wouldn't be a bad way to suck up to Bill ... Hmm. She gazed out onto the street, considering this idea. This end of Old Town, near the river, was particularly busy tonight. The shoe store across the street caught her eye, and she wondered idly if she should ditch Mulder for a second and check it out. Just an idle thought, though. In front of the store, a trio of buskers doo-wopped their way through Christmas carols. Christmas. So hard to believe it was coming soon. The temperature had to still be in the 60s. 

La Nina. Her new best friend. 

What *was* he doing in there? She craned her neck around, hoping to catch a glimpse, but a stack of boxed Madeline dolls blocked her view. 

Madeline. Emily would have liked Madeline. 

A touch on her shoulder startled her, and she turned to find Mulder standing there, clutching a small gift bag in one hand. Any lingering sadness she may have felt over Emily's memory was instantly erased by the look on his face. Intense and vulnerable at the same time, his eyes boring into hers. She could almost feel him steeling his nerve. Must be a hell of an impulse buy, she almost said, but thought better of it. 

"Take it. Take it!" he insisted, batting her gently in the chest with the bag. It rattled and danced in his hand. She took it. "I should have gotten this for you a long time ago," he added. "You've got one now, but it should have come from me -" 

Her fingers slipped inside the bag as he talked, found the tissue paper, pushed its folds apart, and closed on a small, hard, rectangular object. Puzzled, she looked up at him for a second - he was about to jump out of his skin; he hadn't acted like this when he'd given her the football video, or the keychain - and drew the object out of the bag. It was the right size to fit in the palm of her hand, and she stared at it, disbelieving. 

A desk. 

A tiny, dollhouse-sized desk, but her own desk nonetheless. 

Scully closed her fingers around it again, gently, understanding the import of the gift. She brought it to her chest. To her heart, she realized. Right next to Mulder. 

Who'd been there, she now knew, for years. 

"Scully?" He sounded frightened. "Are you okay?" 

She wondered again what look she had on her face. "Mulder, I'm fine." And she took advantage of his automatic twitch of irritation, his glance away, to stand quickly on tiptoe and kiss him on the cheek. Except at the last possible moment, he moved his head - consciously or unconsciously, she never knew - and she caught him on the lips instead. 

The one thing she'd never imagined during the few times she'd allowed herself to consider this scenario was how familiar his mouth would feel on hers, how perfect. Like two puzzle pieces locking together to complete a picture. Like they'd done this a million times before, would do it a million times again. What took us so long? she thought, but she knew. Fear, and fear, and, well, fear. Did I mention fear?

Right now, kissing Mulder on a busy street, in Friday crowds, where anyone could see, she felt fearless. 

Mulder took the hand holding the desk, turned it to press against his own chest, used his other hand to pull her in tight. She stopped thinking, decided to just feel for a while. His end-of-the-day stubble was pleasingly rough on her face, his lips soft and insistent and only ever so slightly open over hers. What a gentleman. She ran her free hand across the back of his neck. The gift bag dangling from her wrist knocked gently against his spine, although he didn't seem to notice. She combed her fingers through the short hair there, thought she felt him shiver. He matched her action, brushing quickly  
through her hair, lingering a little on her implant scar, then sliding over the suddenly sensitive skin of her neck, probing down under her collar ... _oh, Mulder, perfect, that's perfect,  
you're -_

She suddenly grinned against his mouth, breaking the kiss but not contact. He pulled away, flustered. "*What?*" 

His thoughts were nearly audible: oh, God, I did something wrong, I shouldn't have done that, she's going to hate me ... She gave him her most serene look, making sure he understood that everything was okay. And she touched him lightly on the chest. It was okay to touch him now. 

"You were looking for bees, weren't you?" 

Mulder blinked, pretending that he only now realized what he'd been doing. "Once burned ..." He shrugged, failing to make it look casual. "Besides, I'm still paying off the debt from the last time I tried to kiss you. My accountant wants me to avoid a repeat performance. He says you're an awfully expensive date." 

Scully smiled, acknowledging his attempt at making light of a difficult subject. A new memory surfaced: Kneeling on the ice, her exposed hands and wet feet burning from the cold, cradling an unconscious Mulder as she laid her cheek against his frozen hair. He came all this way for me, she'd thought. He did this for me. The memory warmed her. She reached up and gently traced the edge of his left ear, where she could still feel the scarring from the frostbite. Oddly, she'd healed more rapidly than he - in more ways than one, obviously. At least she had no memory of the worst of it. Oh, Mulder. Her gaze slid over to lock on his. Another fully-formed thought appeared in her head: 

_love you, too._

His posture changed. His shoulders and face relaxed, he stood up a little straighter. The light in his eyes grew brighter. For a second, Scully thought she'd actually said it aloud. Spooky. 

This time, he leaned down to kiss her, and there was no mistaking intent. 

"Agent Scully," he murmured in her ear after a while. 

_Dana, call me Dana again -_ "Agent Mulder," she said, her eyes closed. 

"Your behavior in a public place is completely unprofessional." His voice, low and intimate, rumbled pleasantly through her brain, dislodging any protest she might have made. "Regulations require me to relieve you of your car keys and drive you home. You clearly have had too much to drink." 

Scully pressed her cheek into his and smiled. Plausible deniability. Setting up a cover story. No, sir, nothing like that, sir, he was just worried about my safety. The weather just went to my head, sir. She wasn't drunk and he knew it. Bless his heart. Remembering another clear thought she'd had earlier, she pulled away to look him in the eyes. His body moved with hers involuntarily, in protest of the sudden distance. 

"Mulder," she whispered, "you misread my mind." 

_But you were warm ..._

-30-


End file.
